


Indulge The Other

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fantasizing, Hate Sex, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-09
Updated: 2012-07-09
Packaged: 2017-11-09 12:23:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/455420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He wants Derek, he doesn’t want Derek, he wants to tear Derek apart and be torn apart by him. He wants his husband back and he doesn’t ever want to see him again."</p><p>Set during the "Summer of Discontent" in Lielabell's Mating Habits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indulge The Other

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Mating Habits of the Domesticated North American Werewolf](https://archiveofourown.org/works/429414) by [lielabell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lielabell/pseuds/lielabell). 



> “I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other.” -Mary Shelley

The kids are all finally asleep and Derek has locked himself away in their room, probably writing another longwinded ramble about how sorry he is and how it meant nothing. He’ll place it in front of the guest bedroom door and Stiles will step right over it and let it rot with the rest of them. The envelopes get thicker every day, like Derek thinks Stiles is waiting for Derek’s show of remorse to grow to a certain size before he breaks down and reads them.

  
That’s not going to happen, though. He’s not reading them because he already knows what they say. It meant nothing. Please forgive me. I had no idea she would kiss me. When what they should be saying is, I’m a giant fucking idiot with no regard for you or our children and I’m willing to turn my back on my family and everything we’ve built together for a meaningless negotiation.

  
So no, Stiles will not be reading Derek’s hollow apologies, and he’s given up on waiting for Derek to grow the fuck up and grovel in person like he should. He’s almost ready to give up on Derek altogether, even gone so far as packing up all of his clothes, but once he was done with that, he couldn’t decide whether to pack up the kids’ clothes, too. He hates Derek right now, hates him with a deep painful twisting in his gut, but he doesn’t think he could ever hate him enough to take their children away from him. So he closed the dresser drawer and put Ladybug’s rolly Disney Princess suitcase back in the garage where it belonged and then he took his clothes out of his own bags, because if the kids were staying, then he was, too.

  
If he’s honest with himself, Stiles knows that he’s not staying just because he can’t bear to be away from their children. He can’t stand the separation from Derek, either. He knows he’s the one who asked for space, but it’s unnerving to live in the same house with someone and never see them. It’s frustrating to see Derek disappear around corners whenever Stiles enters a room, maddening to roll over in the night and expect to meet his husband’s warm body, but only find cool sheets and empty space.

  
The floorboards creak overhead and Stiles stares up at the ceiling from his spot on the living room couch and follows the sounds with his eyes. Three paces to the left, a pause. Seven paces back to the right and another pause. He must be getting ready for bed, Stiles realizes, and the water running from the bathroom tap while Derek brushes his teeth confirms it. It’s still early, but this has been Derek’s pattern ever since their blow up. He waits until the kids are in bed and he no longer has to pretend for their sake that everything is okay, he writes a letter to Stiles, and then he goes to sleep, maybe trying to fast forward the days until Stiles forgives him, he doesn’t know. Meanwhile, Stiles stays up until the wee hours and watches terrible B-movies on mute and plays through the years of their relationship in his mind, never coming any closer to a decision.

  
Today was a game changer, though. He won’t take the kids away from Derek and Stiles can’t leave the kids, either. The only solution is to stay, to make this work, to forgive Derek, though he doesn’t know how long that will take or if it can even happen. Maybe forgetting is the most they can hope for. He’s still so angry, so righteously pissed off, but today is the first day he’s allowed himself to admit that he still loves him, still wants him.

  
The movement upstairs ceases and Stiles knows Derek has finally crawled into bed, that he probably has his face buried in Stiles’ pillow. He doesn’t need x-ray vision to know that Derek is spread out on the bed, on top of the sheets because any kind of cover is too hot for him during the summer, and clad only in boxers. Stiles idly scratches at his stomach and scrapes his thumbnail along the waistband of his jeans. It’s been almost two weeks now since Stiles has shared their bed, longer than that since he and Derek have had sex. He glares at the ceiling, furious at the sudden urge he has to go upstairs and work out the tension between them with biting kisses and bruising hands. He wants to make Derek beg for mercy and for release and wants to spill his own all over Derek’s pleading, sorrowful face. And then he wants to slam the door behind him and go to sleep by himself, peacefully, and without this need burning through his veins.

  
Derek’s probably still awake, is probably listening to the kids breathe in their sleep or spying on Stiles with his stupid werewolf senses. Stiles hopes it’s the latter as he pops the button on his jeans and pulls the zipper down slowly and deliberately. He drags his shirt up to his nipples and his nails graze his skin, his hands running up his stomach and down his sides until his body gets the message and he begins to grow hard.

  
He shoves his pants a little farther down his hips and frees himself from his underwear. He utters a small gasp that’s entirely for Derek’s benefit and he listens hard as he starts to stroke himself. There’s no discernible response from upstairs so he moans, just a little louder than before. It’s awkward, making this effort to put on a show, and it reminds him of the few times they’d tried phone sex. The first time, neither had known when the other had come and they’d both carried on, trying to make sexy sounds for the other to get off to. They’d gotten better at it, but it would never be one of Stiles’ favorite activities.

  
Since he knows he’ll only sound ridiculous if he tries for sexy, Stiles concentrates on the slide of his hand and the way the ridge of his cock catches on each of his fingers and tries to picture Derek doing the same. No matter how angry he is at Derek, he will never be able to deny that he loves the shape of his body. Stiles imagines sucking bruises into those perfect abs of his, one for every time he’s cried bitter angry tears since that bitch laid her hands on his husband, his mate, and rakes his nails over his neck with his free hand. He’s too mad for soft and gentle touches right now.

  
His hips piston, fucking roughly into his hand, and his breath comes in loud pants now. He sucks his lower lip into his mouth to bite back a moan until he remembers that he wants Derek to hear him, wants him to burn with the same need to touch that’s eating Stiles from the inside out. He wants Derek to come downstairs, to cover him with his body and bite down on the spot that Stiles has been worrying with his nails. He wants Derek to hold him down and fuck him into this couch and prove to him that he still loves him, still cares about him. He wants Derek to put up a fucking fight and not back down and oh so politely give him the space that he has requested.

  
But then, he also wants Derek to come downstairs and kneel at his feet so he can kick him in the balls. He wants to stand over him and rub his cum in his face and tell him that he can never have Stiles again. He wants Derek, he doesn’t want Derek, he wants to tear Derek apart and be torn apart by him. He wants his husband back and he doesn’t ever want to see him again.

  
Stiles bites down on the heel of his hand and groans loud enough that he’s worried for a second that he might have woken one of the kids. His hand moves faster over his cock and he grips the armrest behind his head, desperate to come and desperate for Derek. He turns his face and whines into the crook of his elbow and lets himself pretend that everything will be alright, just for a moment. Finally, he comes, spilling over his hand hot and wet, and tears stinging behind his eyelids.

  
After a long moment, the floorboards overhead creak once more and the bathroom tap runs and Stiles smiles bitterly to himself at what must be the sounds of Derek cleaning himself up. He strips off his shirt and uses it to wipe the mess off his stomach and his eyes land on the drawing of their intertwined hands over the mantel. He squeezes them shut and turns his head away before he opens them again and gets up to go to bed. He’s still furious – one orgasm doesn’t fix everything – but maybe the brief rush of endorphins will let him get to sleep and let him ignore how much this hurts just for one night.


End file.
